Shades
by ElvenPirate41
Summary: Eowyn awakens to find herself in Orthanc, Rohan having lost the battle at Helm's Deep.  GrimaEowyn romance, AU.
1. The Awakening

Hello, all, and welcome to the beginnings of a brand-new Grima/Eowyn story! Firstly, a dedication to the wonderful Auri Mynonys for getting me off my lazy ass to actually write something. :D As for other stuff... the rating is currently PG, but it will go up. How high? Depends on how naughty I'm feeling. ;) Without further ado, here it is.

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**Chapter One**

She awoke only to darkness. She blinked a few times, gradually becoming aware of her surroundings. She lay in a bed piled with blankets; the air in the chamber was heavy and close. Upon trying to sit up, she found herself struggling. Her head ached; her reaching fingers discovered thick bandages wrapped around her matted hair.

Her heart beat quickly as she wondered where she was – perhaps a healer's rooms. Yes, and soon the healer would be along to bring her water, and to tell her where her uncle and her brother were.

But were they even still alive? The last thing she remembered clearly was the explosion at the Hornburg – a cacophony that shook the very walls of the caves, and then darkness. After that, she could recall nothing. No, not nothing, she realized. She could remember cool hands upon her burning forehead, and a soothing voice whispering words of comfort. Yet she felt no comfort now.

_I am Éowyn, daughter of Éomund,_ she said to herself. Like a child fearful of the dark, she dared not speak aloud. _I am the sister of Éomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, and niece of Théoden, King of Rohan. I am a shieldmaiden of the Riddermark, and I am not afraid._

She suddenly jumped, hearing a scuffling sound across the room. This was shortly followed by a small squeak – it had been nothing but a mouse.

_I am _not _afraid,_ she whispered, drawing on every ounce of her strength. Everything would be fine. She drew her knees up to her chin, and waited.

Despite herself, she must have fallen asleep again, because she was brought back to consciousness by the unmistakable presence of another person in the room. Opening her eyes, she saw a thin figure across the room, standing with his back to her. The light in the chamber grew as he lit several candles.

Éowyn noted several things about the room: it was small and circular, with black, gleaming walls. Three cascades of dark fabric covered what one could assume were windows. The most eye-catching feature of the otherwise drab quarters was the veritable library it contained. Everywhere she looked, she saw shelves and shelves of books, maps, rolls of parchment, battered quills, half-empty bottles of ink.

But then she turned her attentions to the man before her. She observed black garb, pale hands, limp, dark hair. A horror began to grow inside her, and she tried to shrink underneath the blankets which covered her. One was especially heavy; closer inspection revealed it to be trimmed with black fur that gave her goosebumps when it brushed her arm. _Not a blanket. A cloak. _His _cloak,_ she realized, recoiling from it.

Pieces began to fall into place – the battle, the explosion, and now this chamber of ebony stone… and _him_…

He turned around as silently as a shadow, and smiled faintly to see her awake.

"My lady."

She gritted her teeth, causing a burst of pain in her head. Wincing, she growled, "Wormtongue, how have I come to be in Orthanc? When my Uncle the King—"

"The King of Rohan is dead," he interrupted, picking up a tray which held a bowl, a pitcher, and a goblet. "As are nearly all the Rohirrim who were at Helm's Deep. Men, women, children. Soldiers and civilians alike." She studied his face as he set the tray down on a small table next to the bed, and she saw in it no remorse.

"Our people," she whispered, thinking of her uncle's kindness, Éomer's brotherly affection. But she would not cry before _him._ She would not allow it.

"_Your_ people, perhaps," he said coldly, pouring water into the goblet. "They ceased to be my people long ago."

Éowyn looked up at him scornfully. "So you have not kidnapped me for ransom. What for, then? I expect you wish to use me for your own perverted delights, snake that you are—"

"I saved you," he snarled, coldness quickly morphing into something more bitter. "My lord Saruman bade me ride to the Hornburg after word came of the victory of his Uruk-hai. My task was to assess the losses and see if there was anything of worth there." He handed her the bowl, which was filled with a soup which appeared thin, but steamed invitingly. "And I did indeed find something of worth, down in the caves."

"The only Rohirric life of any value to you," she said harshly. "Save perhaps your own miserable hide."

"Say to me what you will, my lady. My heart shattered when I saw you, deathly pale and bleeding." His voice barely masked a deep intensity. "I brought you back to Isengard straight away; here you have lain in a fever for three days."

"Better you had left me for dead."

He looked at her with icy eyes. "I am sorry if you prefer the company of corpses to mine. I must confess, I would have thought my lady stronger than to wish for death." This touched a nerve in her – he, the greatest coward she had ever known, daring to insinuate she was weak! – though she refused to let it show.

"I shall take my leave that you may rest, and enjoy the solitude," he said pointedly.

She grabbed his cloak and pulled it off of her. "Take this filthy thing with you."

"The tower is cold, my lady. Keep it." He turned and made it halfway to the door before she spoke again.

"Why do you taunt me so?" she cried. "I am royalty no more; you know this. I am surprised you have not yet made mention of it, in fact. Why must you call me lady?"

That strange, faint smile returned to his pale lips. "Though you are no longer a princess, my lady you shall ever be, Éowyn." And with that he left, leaving her briefly wondering if he felt as cold as she did, as cold as the stone of Orthanc.

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Thus ends Chapter One. I really wish I could write longer chapters, but never mind that. More importantly, I haven't written much of anything in awhile aside from RPG posts, so I feel like my writing is a little rusty. Constructive criticism is therefore more than welcome, and indeed encouraged. Drop a review and let me know what you think!


	2. Decision and Desire

Look, everyone, I'm alive! It's been almost two months since I last updated, and I apologize for that. Everyone thank my friend Towie for inspiring me to write again by reading his excellent Harry Potter stories. Anyhow, here's Chapter Two. What's that I smell? A developing plot? Hurrah! By the way, I took Auri's advice and snipped the last section off the end of Chapter One and made it the beginning of this chapter. It ought to serve as a nice reminder as to what the story's all about at least. ;) I'll shut up now; enjoy!

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**Chapter Two **

Gríma stood outside the door of his chamber – _his _chamber, _his _bed where Éowyn rested – simply marveling at her. She had only just awoken, and already her strength was returning. He had not exaggerated; when he had seen her lying on the wet rock of the caves, unconscious and bleeding from a horrible blow to the head, he had thought she was dead. He had knelt beside her body, taken her white hand, brushed golden hair away from her face, thinking that he too might die. For what was life worth without her? How beautiful could the world be without her in it?

Softly, he slipped down the stairs, knowing that he was just as addicted to her cruelty as to her beauty.

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Inside the room, Éowyn slowly sipped at the hot soup. It was thin and was in want of some salt, but it warmed her to her very toes. She wondered if Wormtongue had made it himself.

Glancing down at the cloak which lay atop the thin blankets, she gently entwined her fingers in the fur. Then, as if tossing aside some errant thought, she scoffed and threw the cloak on the floor. In the event that he should return, she could always say that the soup had overheated her.

"The King of Rohan is dead," he had told her. The battle must have been nothing short of a massacre. Her only family, her friends, the Lord Aragorn… they had all fought with honor, and in all likelihood had died with honor, while she had been trapped in the caves, helpless. To her surprise, she did not have to blink back tears – there was only grim acceptance and emptiness within her. She wished, though, that she had fought and died alongside those she loved. "I fear neither death nor pain," she had declared to Aragorn, and she had meant every word. But she did fear a cage – or a stone tower. If only she had died at her king's side…

And yet she did not truly wish she were dead. Not entirely.

Frustrated, she pushed the blankets off of her and swung her legs out of the bed. She gasped softly at the chill of the gleaming stone floor upon her bare feet. The numerous bookshelves towered before her. What were all these tomes and manuscripts and parchments?

She recalled how Wormtongue (though she had called him by his right name then) had read to her from his books when she was younger, how he had shown her maps and recounted many tales. He had taught her the letters, insisting that even though Rohan was not generally a place for the written word, knowing how to read and write was absolutely vital. She had not shared his passion for such scholarly activities, but she was a willing student and an intelligent one too, as it had turned out.

The lessons had ended when she was fifteen years of age, when she came into her womanhood and was deemed a lady of the court.

Gently, she removed a volume from the shelf, imagining him doing the same with great reverence. Herself and his books, she thought wryly – the only two things he revered. She flipped through the pages, skimming a few as she went. This particular book was about the lineage of Gondorian kings, written in the Common Speech. Hardly finding such a topic of much interest, she put it back in its place.

She looked over a few of the other titles. Some were in the Common Speech, which she understood; others seemed to be in some Elvish tongue, of which she only knew a few words. And yet even as she marveled at Wormtongue's mastery of all these languages, she realized that next to none of them were in Rohirric. _Small wonder he thought us simpletons, _she thought.

Whilst gazing upon the impressive collection of books, Éowyn found herself wondering if Wormtongue had ever kept a journal. She remembered how he would shut himself in his chamber at Edoras, and the sound of a scratching quill could be heard from within for hours at a time. Yet no one, not even Éowyn, ever knew exactly what it was he was scribbling away at – why couldn't it have been a journal? It certainly was like him to put his thoughts to paper.

Another thing occurred to her. What language would he use, if indeed he had kept a journal? Her hope faltered; she had thought for a few moments that she might actually be able to get inside his twisted mind. But she knew him better than anyone else (which, she thought, was not necessarily a good thing), and she knew he would not be so careless as to transcribe his innermost thoughts in a way easily read by anyone in Rohan.

_But Éowyn, girl, what will you do with your time, anyway? You've nothing else to do, so you may as well pursue some answers, no matter how unlikely it is that you'll ever find them._ Yes. It was better than spending her days in idleness, waiting for Wormtongue to… well, she didn't want to think about that.

But where to look first? Smiling strangely to herself, she began combing each bookshelf in search of a man's secrets.

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Gríma wound a silent path down the spiral staircase that descended though Orthanc. He aimed for nowhere in particular; in the past, he might have gone outdoors to enjoy the beauty of Isengard's flourishing gardens, but those days were long since gone. Now, the Ring of Isengard was barren, and from it rose smoke instead of tree-tops. Gríma avoided looking out of the windows these days. He was a tactician, a schemer – he had few qualms in doing his part in Saruman's grander agendas, but he really had no desire to bear witness to their full culmination.

No, he had no destination in mind now. All that mattered was that Éowyn was getting her rest and nourishment. He imagined her sleeping peacefully, disheveled and tangled in his bedsheets. The image was so wonderful that he completely forgot to watch where he was going.

"Idiot!" the White Wizard spat, having nearly been knocked down the stairs.

"My apologies, my lord," Gríma said quickly. "I was lost in thought."

"I am glad you do not lose your wits as well every time you take it upon yourself to think! Where are you off to, Worm?"

"I have just left the Lady Éowyn to eat and recover her strength, my lord."

Saruman eyed him severely. "Be prudent in your care, I beg. While the wench is hardly a threat to us, if she grows too strong she may acquire a taste for more than your foul cooking, Worm. She may turn her mind to vengeance and escape."

"Fear not, my lord. I shall see to it that she harbors no such desires."

"And do not forget that I have a number of elixirs in my stores should you wish her to harbor… _other_ desires," said the wizard, more sardonically than generously.

"You are most kind, my lord."

Saruman took his leave, tossing off some comment about how Gríma ought to avoid killing anyone else as he descended the stairs. The wizard would have been irked, for Gríma was soon deep in thought again. This time, though, he was not envisioning rumpled golden hair on his pillow, but rather wondering if it was possible to earn her love. Saruman did have potions that would make her bend to Gríma's every whim, but Gríma was loath to use them. He felt there was hope. She had counted him as a friend once, and there had been times even in the recent past when he had seen something other than hatred in her glances.

No, all was not lost.

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You too can be awesome! That's right, it's easy! All you have to do is leave a review - praise, insult, offer advice, whatever. And most important of all, nag about how slowly I update. Maybe it'll make Chapter Three come sooner. ) 


	3. Requirements

**Chapter Three**

After what she judged to be about two hours, Éowyn had decided that although Wormtongue was admittedly intriguing for all his loathsomeness, he had exceedingly dull taste in reading material. In that time she had gotten through just one overstuffed bookcase, and was no closer to finding anything resembling a journal. Either it was well-hidden, or it didn't exist – right now, she chose to assume the former.

She moved on to the next shelf and opened up a pair of parchments that had been folded together. She had been checking every parchment carefully, thinking that Wormtongue would be secretive enough to hide something inside one of them. So far, she had only discovered the large papers to contain maps.

This one was different, though. Immediately she recognized the royal seal of her uncle, accompanied by Wormtongue's graceful script – this was the documentation of a law or royal edict. Carefully, she read its contents; it was not recently written, but it made her blood boil. It was the very document which had declared Wormtongue to be Théoden's chief counselor, second in authority only to the king himself. The action had infuriated Éomer and disquieted a fair many others, but Wormtongue had still possessed the trust of much of Rohan in those days.

Éowyn scowled and looked at the second parchment, which only deepened her frown. It was an expertly drawn diagram depicting the layout of the Hornburg, with every room down to the smallest cupboard meticulously labeled with its purpose and dimensions. She remembered how Wormtongue had insisted that it was necessary to keep records of such things, especially if Rohan should go to war. He had done what most had considered unthinkable – actually ridden out to the fortress with a small entourage to make all the records himself. This had actually made some of his critics think that perhaps he was looking out for the good of Rohan after all.

_And look what came of all his noble work! _Éowyn thought. _This was how Saruman's armies knew how to get past our defenses – he had it all mapped out for him, clear as day!_

She was filled with rage; she could stay here no longer! She ran to the door and tugged on the handle, but it would not budge. The window! She might be high up in the tower, but perhaps there was a way out.

Throwing the heavy curtains aside, she knew that to be impossible. She was up a dizzying height from the ground, which was a horrifying sight too, pockmarked with pits of fire as if she were in Mordor itself. Overcome with fear and anger, she stumbled back and sank to the floor at the foot of the bed, still clutching the map. There was a third emotion now, too, one that she did not want to face. Against her will and her efforts, she began to cry. She was utterly alone, there was no way out of this black prison, she would die here…

"Éowyn…"

The soft voice startled her; for a moment she thought she was going mad, but she looked up to see the traitor himself advancing toward her, concern lined in his face.

He leaned down and offered her his hand. "Hush, Éowyn, and tell me what is the matter," he said gently.

"How _dare_ you!" she cried, standing up. He quickly straightened as well. "How _dare_ you come in here and ask me this as if you do not know?"

"My lady, I did not—"

She did not want to hear a single word from him. The nerve he had! Without warning, she slapped him across the face. The pale face became colorless, save for the red mark left by her hand.

"Do you take pleasure in my misery? Monster! Leech!" she shouted, spots of red burning on her wet cheeks. _"Do you?"_

His face was white, and his pale eyes wide with shock at her outburst. For several seconds he seemed at a loss for words, but then recovered himself.

"I only came to ask if there is anything you require, my lady."

"_Require?"_ She took a step toward him; he seemed to pull back. "I _require_ that you let me out of this prison! I_ require_ that I never see your wretched face again! I _require_ my freedom!" He was stunned back into silence and made no attempt to reply. "Well? You asked if I require anything. You can grant these things – yes, such power you have attained for yourself!" She held up the map she had discovered; his eyes nervously flicked down to the parchment and then back to her.

"But by such cunning means!" she continued. "Should you not wish to exercise that power? Did you not come here to grant any request I might have?"

He spoke falteringly. "I – I cannot."

"You cannot _what?"_

"I cannot do what you have asked of me, my lady. But… I wish you to be happy."

Éowyn gestured to their surroundings. "This is hardly the way to show it. No doubt this is the culmination of your plan – is it just how you expected? What did you think would happen, that I would fall into your arms in blind grief? You are pathetic, and I would pity you if I did not despise you even more. You may profess that you desire my happiness, but I know better. If you truly cared for me you would grant me my freedom."

"I cannot do that, Éowyn," he said evenly, meeting her grey eyes with his pale blue ones.

"Why not?" she asked, emboldened to the point of recklessness by all that she had said thus far.

"I… because… Éowyn, you do not understand."

"I understand completely." Her voice was hard and challenging. "You would not part with your prize. Greed and lust, the vices of your downfall."

"No, _my lady,_" he said, this time stepping closer to her. "It is evident that you are incapable of understanding. I thought perhaps you might have some inkling of comprehension, but you have grown too cold. I see that I was wrong."

"It would not be the first time," she told him, refusing to step away.

"Indeed not," he murmured. His eyes… she would not be the one to look away. "I shall return in the evening to attend to any requirements of a more mundane nature which you may have. Surely you do not wish to starve."

He turned and took a few steps towards the door, but then stopped abruptly. "And a word of advice from a counselor once trusted: if you wish to peruse my belongings, do so. I have nothing to hide from you. However, I warn you that, as you have already discovered, you may not like all that you find."

She did not know how to reply to that, and was irked when again he left with the last word.

She _knew_ she was right. Greed and lust, that was what his sorry existence had become. And he had the gall to deny it, as if she couldn't see right through him. She had known him for most of her life, and she knew exactly how he was: withdrawn, defensive, venomous – in a word, snakelike. _He was kind to you, though_, she thought. _Before everything went so horribly wrong._ She knew he claimed to love her, but could love drive a man to change as he had, to do the things he had done?

Maybe she didn't understand.

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A shortish sort of chapter as usual, but it's better than nothing, right? Again, thanks to the lovely Auri for getting me motivated to write this. A review would be just as lovely. :) 


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